


Guppy

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Harry Potter Next Generation, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 16:22:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8379181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Draco redirects the lost.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This isn’t properly British or canon. Special thanks to FangQueen for the fact help~

When he was young, there use to be a sick satisfaction in slipping down Knockturn Alley—so many of his peers were afraid of just the name. But Draco would follow his father down one dark corridor after another, see all sorts of forbidden things, and come away with creepy stories that would make Gregory’s eyes go wide and Pansy look at him in awe.

But then the war came, and the manor was raided, and his picture was splashed across the tabloids, and no matter what he does to rebuild, there’s always eyes on his back. He can practically feel the scolding looks when he makes that one turn, but the people judging him couldn’t possibly understand. He’s a professor now. He works at _Hogwarts_ , for Merlin’s sake, and how is he to be a potions master without ingredients, the sort that can only be found tucked down the off-beat streets? He doesn’t get any pleasure anymore out of the twisted artifacts that linger in the dusty windows of one lewd shop after the next, but Draco has a job to do and a new semester starting, and he gets on with his life.

The newt parts are a big hard to find, but he tracks them down. He has most of the herbs he needs from more appropriate shops along Diagon Alley. But he’s still trying to find the talons of crows when he turns down a side street and almost gets knocked to the pavement. The bag slung over his shoulder is twisted back, and Draco stumbles in surprise, his legs abruptly pulled together—he thinks he’s been hit with a jinx, but then he catches sight of the thick red hair buried against his hip. A small child’s attached itself to him, clinging tightly to the back of his robes and hiding half behind him. A minute later, Draco figures out why—a gnarled looking witch races around the corner, only to skid to a halt at the sight of Draco. The child, not even old enough for Hogwarts, still a couple of years younger than Scorpius, makes a whimpering sound and tries to disappear behind Draco completely. The witch scowls at the little boy, then at Draco, but Draco just stands and _glares_ , because he’s been around dark wizards enough to guess what’s going on here. The child couldn’t possibly belong to her, and too many lurkers of Knockturn Alley will try to turn anything for a profit, even if that thing is a living soul.

After a short glare-off, the witch wrinkles her nose and turns on her heels, stomping back into the shadows she came from. Draco lets out a breath of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding—it was only fatherly and professor-related instincts that kept him standing guard; he couldn’t _actually_ have done much to protect the poor child. The Ministry still has his wand. But he knows if his Scorpius had somehow gotten lost in Knockturn Alley, he’d hope a stranger would step in against predators for Scorpius.

The child, when Draco twists enough in his grip to look at him, isn’t anything like Scorpius. He’s short, neither particularly thin nor large, with caramel skin and a mass of freckles, and big, watery eyes that look up at Draco in awe. For a split second, Draco’s heart clenches—he _used_ to inspire awe, when he was young and richly dressed, handsome and unburdened, and his sins weren’t public knowledge. It’s one of the few joys in teaching—the students, when they’re young enough, don’t all hate him already.

The boy squeaks shyly, “Hi.”

Draco returns, “Hi,” and tries not to frown too hard. When the child says nothing else, just looks down and plays with the ends of Draco’s black robes, Draco figures he’ll have to take the lead. He can’t just leave the poor thing alone on a disturbing street where anything could happen.

So he bends down to the boy’s level, balancing on his knees, and asks gently, “What’s your name?”

The child hesitates a moment, twisting a bit around the middle in the random patterns that most children seem prone to. Scorpius was always very sturdy, but then, his grandparents are still as prim and proper as ever. Finally, the boy mumbles, “Hugo.” He doesn’t give a surname, like Draco always would’ve done.

He doesn’t give one either now, just says, “I’m Draco.” He holds out his hand, and Hugo wraps his little fingers around it but doesn’t shake, so Draco has to do that part. Hoping it will be reassuring, he adds, “I’m the Potions professor at Hogwarts. Are you going there soon?”

Like he thought, Hugo’s eyes light up. Most wizarding children can’t wait to go off and learn spells. Usually, they’re quick to tell him what they know of it, but Hugo asks timidly, “Are you in Hufflepuff?”

Draco can’t help a slight smile. His pride compels him to correct, “No, I went to Slytherin.”

Hugo looks concerned for half a moment, which is too often the case, but then he scuffs his shoe against the pavement and looks down, muttering dejectedly, “ _I’m_ going to be in Hufflepuff.” He seems more upset by that than the mention of Slytherin.

“And how do you know that?” Draco asks.

“My sister and all my cousins say so,” Hugo whines, before slumping his shoulders and practically wailing, “But they’re _all_ in Gryffindor, and Mum and Dad were in Gryffindor—”

“And Hufflepuff is an excellent house,” Draco says, because even after all these years, he _still_ can’t bring himself to endorse Gryffindor. He can vividly remember being guiltily relieved when the hat shouted Slytherin for Scorpius. “Some people think it’s the nicest house. Most Hufflepuffs are kind and happy, and they all have lots of friends.” Which is a broad, completely unfounded generality, but he can see that Hugo’s hanging on to every word.

Hugo asks, “Really?” Like Draco is speaking the words of Merlin himself.

Draco nods solemnly. “Yes. When other children say mean things about Hufflepuff, it’s because they _wish_ they had as many friends as Hufflepuffs do.” Or because they’re in Slytherin and actually superior, but of course Draco isn’t going to say that. 

Instead, he lifts stiffly back to his feet and offers his hand. Hugo takes it again, and Draco heads off back towards Diagon Alley, where the child’s surely lost from. His clothing’s Muggle—jeans and a maroon sweater—and there aren’t many all-Gryffindor families that shop in this end. Scorpius is mostly quiet for the journey, occasionally shying away from the disturbing items in shop windows to hug tighter against Draco’s legs, but near the stairs that lead up into the sunshine, Hugo stops and wraps both hands around Draco’s fingering, asking, “Will you be my friend?”

It’s an absurd question, but cute enough that it tugs a smile out of Draco. When Hugo’s older, he’ll probably understand that professors and students aren’t really _friends_ , and Draco knows his own son well enough not to claim that Scorpius will be Hugo’s friend when the time comes. So he decides to play into the whimsical fantasy of childhood and just says, “Yes.”

Hugo lights up like a beacon. When he grins like that, fully fledged and not cowering in on his tiny self, he strikes something in Draco, something familiar—he’s seen those bright eyes before. 

Then a voice shouts, “Hugo!” and both Draco and the child on his arm whip around to see a larger man pushing through the crowd.

A Weasley, Draco instantly knows, and his face pales for it—he knows how this looks. He can’t remember the right name exactly—it isn’t Ron, the only one Draco really _knew_ , but some broader, more sun-tanned man that comes over to scoop Hugo up into his arms. 

While the man glares daggers at Draco worse than the first witch did, Hugo twists around in the man’s arms and gives Draco a cowering look. Maybe he’s afraid he’ll be in trouble, or maybe he wanted to hear more about Hogwarts and the possibility of Hufflepuff and a friend. 

But this changes everything, and now Draco can’t stop himself from giving the Weasley a sneer. He’s not proud of himself for it. But it’s _instinct_ that he can’t seem to conquer. The Weasley hisses, “Stay away from him.”

That’ll be hard when Hugo grows up and goes off to Hogwarts. But instead of pointing that out, Draco snaps back, “You’re a terrible babysitter.” And it _has_ to be a babysitter, some uncle or other, because no self-respecting parent would let their child wander down Knockturn Alley alone. 

The man opens his mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it, and instead storms off. The crowd parts for his angry steps, and Hugo’s little face peaks over the man’s shoulder, his short arm lifting to wave goodbye.

Draco kicks a pebble for no particular reason and storms off the other way, wondering if it’s time to send father-or-uncle Ron-and-only-Weasley-he-knows a ‘you’re a shitty parent’ owl.


End file.
